


why don't we just pretend

by itsziallbaby



Category: One Direction (Band)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:10:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsziallbaby/pseuds/itsziallbaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"you only ever touch me in the dark, only when we're drinking can you see my spark, and only in the evening, do you give yourself to me because the night is your woman and she'll set you free"</p>
            </blockquote>





	why don't we just pretend

**Author's Note:**

> based off marina and the diamonds "lies"

you know the world is still spinning, still moving, still orbiting but it’s to believe it when it feels like yours is ending. 

it’s hard to believe that right now, in this very instant, people are waking up and falling asleep and going to class and leaving for work and making love. it’s hard to believe that anything exists besides you and the drink in your hand and the photo album in your lap; it’s hard to believe that there are things like global warming and endangered animals and economic depressions, hard to believe that there are bigger things than your heartbreak right now. 

it’s hard because it’s in the rags and on the internet and you’ve received thousands of messages from happy girls telling you it’s about damn time you left him alone. it’s hard because this may be the most personal thing you’ve ever gone through, and everyone in the world knows about it. you’ve been getting calls from american gossip rags asking for interviews, and that’s just. you just can’t handle that right now.

you know your cell phone is sitting on your bed, probably with a half dozen missed calls from your friends or your mum or maybe even jay and if there’s one thing you just can’t handle right now it’s sympathy. there is nothing to say that could make this okay, and any attempts to try would just leave you feeling more broken. 

because you don’t deserve sympathy, you don’t deserve the pity filled “are you alright” or the promises to go get drunk or the empty reassurances that you’ll do better, you deserve better, fuck him. you don’t deserve to feel angry and you can’t warrant this moping, pathetic behavior because you should’ve known better. you knew it wasn’t going to work out, knew that the two of you didn’t quite fit, knew that no matter how much you loved him, he wasn’t ever going to feel the same. 

it makes you feel small sometimes, small and insignificant. sometimes, late at night when you’re waiting for phone calls that won’t be returned, it consumes you and makes you feel breathless, this weight on your chest that makes it hard to move, this looming idea that you’ll never be more than a girlfriend. his girlfriend. the pretty face he can call his own and drag about when he need to, nothing more than a possession in his collection, becoming less and less important as newer, shinier things came around. 

but then you’re flying around the world, and cameras are in your face and little girls are telling you that you’re beautiful and special and the luckiest girl in the world and you feel like it. there are fancy restaurants and shopping trips and vacations on beaches and before you know it you can’t look at a magazine or listen to the radio without seeing his smile or hearing him harmonize. it’s a little surreal, feels like a dream a lot. getting to play pretend for a few days before its back to manchester and studying and finals. 

it started off simple enough, a day at work with dad, a casual introduction. smiling to yourself because the boy with the long swooping fringe grins at you before elbowing one of his buddies. he introduces himself and when he smiles, the corner of his blue eyes crinkle. your dad leaves you for a moment and its suddenly five boys talking over another and laughing too loudly and all you can do is lock stares with the blue eyed one and share an eye roll. 

he gives you a number, tells you to call him sometime. that leads to late nights on the phone, and there is a first date, there’s a nervous kiss outside the cinema. he takes you home to meet his family and the first time he mentions you in an interview, you swear you feel like flying. it’s good, really good and now you can’t help but look back at your naïve self. 

it’s simple and nice and he smiles when you laugh and runs his fingers through your hair. not soon after though, rumors start, and you are instructed by his management to keep your head high and not to reply to the hateful things people are sending you. they’re just jealous, they reassure, silly little girls who wish they were you. 

but this isn’t normal, you think, they’re calling you a liar and a fake and what the hell is a beard? they’re accusing you of keeping two people in love apart when you’re just starting to fall for the first time. it doesn’t make sense and louis isn’t helping any, condescendingly telling you to forget about that, using that word jealous again, and he doesn’t clear anything up but he ends the conversation with an insistent kiss and, well. maybe it’s not that important. when he’s finished and is flopped down next to you in bed he twirls a lock of your hair in between his fingers and tells you he likes it when you wear it curly. you try to ignore them, because really, who cares what a couple of teenage girls think. but next time you see the band and he looks at you with a shit eating grin and bright green eyes, it's hard to smile back. 

so the rumors are still there, lurking in the background as the boys take to america, their album debuts at number one and you’ve found a blog urging you to kill yourself. you’re photographed on a date with louis, and your twitter mentions are filled with horrible words. one million followers are twitter, so the next time you stop by tesco’s, a girl shoves you in the tea aisle and calls you a slut.

you smiled brighter, laughed louder, lost fifteen pounds off your small frame, anything and everything to keep up. he and those other four boys practically owned the world, and you’ll be damned if you get left behind in the dust. their management tells you it’s important to seem nothing but classy and elegant when in public and you accept the responsibility and the weight on your shoulders like it’s nothing. 

danielle is there in the beginning, it’s nice to have someone knows what it feels like, but even then you feel isolated. the “fans” don’t hate her, not like they do you. but danielle is more sensitive, is more affected by the insults than you are, so you don’t say anything. you comfort her and let your own insecurities settle uneasily in the pit of your stomach. 

but then her and liam are over, and she’s hurt and upset and she’s the one that finally voices that quiet, small concern of yours. 

“it’ll be okay, dani, i know it will.” you say, rubbing circles into her back. 

“oh fuck off el,” she replies because she’s angry and sad. “next it’ll be you and louis.”

she apologizes later, after she and liam are back together. she gave you a tight hug and complimented you on your new hair cut and said she was a right shit for saying something like that. you forgive her, even though the words still hurt because really, what else is there to do?

but the thing is, you know she’s right. things are weird between you and louis, different. it’d be easy to brush it off as distance, but it’s something new and you know it. he’s there and he’s holding your hand, but his eyes have a far-away look to them, the only time they light up is when his phone buzzes. there’s a smattering of new tattoos on his arm, random objects and phrases that he can’t or maybe won’t explain. “i just like the look of them,” he shrugs and you resist from reminding him all the times he said the exact opposite.

something is wrong, you know it, but when you call up jay to ask if she knows something, she stammers and gives vague half answers and then quickly claims she has to leave to pick the girls up from school. you don’t bother reminding her it’s a sunday. 

so you smile brighter, laugh easier, and push away those thoughts that keep you up at night. 

the boys are performing at msg and that means you get to fly out to new york. it’s a really big deal, everyone’s excited for it, but when you arrive there, those thoughts come back, a hundred times stronger.

louis is miserable, absolutely miserable. he should be happy, on top of the world, but there’s a bitter sadness in his eyes, a heavy weight on his shoulders that won’t go away, no matter how hard you try to kiss him.   
but it’s their big concert, and you watch from shit seats as your boyfriend’s dreams come true. danielle holds your hand and cheers just as loud as the fans, singing along to every song. afterwards, there are girls asking you for photos and you smile as bright as you can, but it’s getting harder to do so each time.

there’s a party afterwards, because the boys are proper celebrities now. you find yourself sitting in a corner table, sipping on your second margarita listening to danielle and the new girlfriend perrie. 

“so they’re not, like, really together right?” she asks, nodding to harry and taylor freaking swift. “it’s publicity, yeah?” 

“why would you say that?” you interrupt suddenly, speaking for the first time during the conversation, the words “beard” and “fake” and “larry” ringing in your ears.

she looks a little startled, but holds her ground. “well they obviously don’t look very happy together now do they?” 

you glance over at the dancing pair. and she’s right. harry’s visibly upset, keeping his eyes at the almost empty bar and taylor just looks annoyed. 

“they’re both just tired,” you defend, remembering the snapshots taken of you and louis earlier that morning, the ones that sent another wave of hate towards in your inbox. “looks don’t really mean anything.” 

she gives you a curious look but shrugs and turns back to danielle, asking her about her dancing career. danielle talks back, but she’s glancing worriedly at you through the corner of her eyes. eventually zayn and liam come and collect their girls, and danielle leaves with a reluctant “are you sure you’re okay?”

you nod and reassure her that yes, you can handle being alone for a few moments. she is still looking at you doubtfully, but liam’s hands keeps snaking lower, and, well. she knows you can take care of yourself.   
you sit there and order yourself another drink, louis is god knows where. you feel yourself get steadily drunker. you order shots. and another drink. but the alcohol is only making you sadder. louis turns up eventually, and he’s just as drunk as you are, if not more. his eyes are glassy, his shirt untucked, and when he whispers into your ear, you can smell the whiskey falling from his lips. 

“so fucking pretty, el.” he murmurs hotly. you flinch away but he doesn’t seem to notice. “so fucking special. m’in love with you.” he starts placing sloppy kisses on your cheek, and as you turn to meet your lips with his, you try to remember the last time he said those words.

you leave with him a few minutes later, and as you exit the club he turns and gives a long look at the remaining party, something hard and indescribable in his eyes. he takes you to the hotel, and you’ve barely closed the door behind you before he’s grabbing at your waist and kissing you hard. 

he stumbles toward the bedroom and is tugging at your clothes, he’s being rough, harsher than usual, but he’s drunk and kissing you and just preformed at madison square garden and truthfully, you don’t want to risk him pulling away again by saying anything. 

so you let him tear the clothes off you, watch as he clumsily undoes his own shirt and pants. once he’s undressed he glances over you in your underwear, sitting on the bed. he sighs and shakes his head and turns out the lights. it’s dark and you feel him crawl over you, press his lips against yours softly. he seems to be making up for earlier, being gentle as he runs his hands up and down your arms. he’s mouthing and softly biting your collarbones, he’s never done that before. you gasp, soft and breathy and feel him tense up in response. 

you can see the darken silhouette of him shaking his head and he pulls away from you suddenly. “turn around, love” he says quietly, putting a hand on your waist and pushing you on your stomach. he enters you like that, from behind with your face buried in pillows that smell like fabric softener. he’s quick, and barely touches you, just hands on your hips to help him thrust. you feel him shudder and when he comes, he’s whispering a name that wasn’t yours. a name that you know, and he knows, and the whole fucking world knows, and every impossible thought you’ve ever had is pulled into reality with one, stupid, stupid name. 

he pulls out and flops down beside you while tears fill your eyes. he’s still drunk and half asleep already and can’t hear you cry. so this is it. you finally know why things have been so different, all the rumors and speculations were true. congratulations eleanor, your boyfriend is a fucking fag. 

the next morning, he doesn’t remember anything and greets you with a kiss on the cheek, the barest contact of lips on skin, and asks if you don’t mind him staying inside today, he has a massive headache. he tells you to go out, to enjoy the vacation and hands you a shiny black credit card. “buy yourself something nice,” he says, crawling back into bed and you find yourself leaving the hotel room without so much as saying a word. 

new york is lovely in wintertime, you think. there are people ice skating and couples holding hands through thick mittens and children pointing at toys in store front windows. you buy yourself a hot chocolate and wander the streets, feeling small and empty. time passes quickly, faster than you can believe, and it’s almost eight o’clock. you find your way back to the hotel, louis is still in sweats and a t-shirt moping on the balcony. you come up and wrap your arms around his waist. he doesn’t hug you back but he doesn’t pull away either. maybe last night was a fluke, you find yourself desperately thinking, he was drunk and tired and maybe, hopefully, he still loves you. 

you press your lips against his cold ones, softly to see what he does. you can hear the softest, quietest sigh escape his lips before he kisses you back, putting his hands on your waist. 

it’s slow and sweet and feels like the end of something and when you pull away, he almost looks relieved. “do you have anything to tell me louis?” you ask, your voice steady despite the fear you have of the answer.   
he gives you a long look, his blue eyes dark and lovely and everything you want, “no, love.” he finally replies,kissing you on the cheek and heading back into the room. 

coward, you think, you scream in your head. you want to yell at him, throw something, break something. you want to screech and fight and demand he man the fuck up and tell you what you deserve to know. you want to smack him and kiss him and beg, plead to him to change something you know he probably can’t. you…you just want him to love you again. 

but you don’t do any of those things. you go back into the room and start to pack, your flight leaves tomorrow and you need to do something to keep your hands occupied. you go out to dinner with liam and danielle and she keeps watching you with a concerned frown on her pretty face. you start to smile and laugh and she seems pacified, and it’s all too easy to fall back into this habit. this pretending. this lying.   
it’s a little better at home, easy to get distracted by papers and classes and exams and finals, easy to throw yourself into your studies, managing to get on the dean’s list this semester. but even that isn’t enough and there’s a constant voice in the back of your head chanting louis, louis, louis. 

you know he’s busy, but he hasn’t called in a while, and when you offer to take the train from manchester to london he declines and says he has to work. you tell him you understand and leave out the part where you already checked with his manager if he had that weekend off. 

your friends ask, they’re only human, and curious about you and your rockstar boyfriend, filling holes in conversations with “hey eleanor, how’s that singing man of yours?” 

you shock yourself, sometimes, with how easily you smile and make a clever joke back. it probably says something important about you and your personality, the way you can pretend everything is fine. but thinking about it too much hurts, and so you try not to dwell on things too long, throwing yourself into school and an internship and hanging out with friends. 

things seem to pay off after a while, because louis is taking you to a fashion show, topshop nonetheless, and he looks so handsome and is smiling and holding your hand, and you are beyond happy. so, so glad that he’s acting normal, acting like the louis you fell in love with. there are cameras and paparazzi and louis, who normally tries to avoid the paps, is proudly holding you in front of them, showing you off to the world and you couldn’t keep the big smile off your face if you tried. 

he takes you out to eat afterwards, a small restaurant where he asks for the most secluded table there. he smiles and indulges you as you go on about the show, the pieces you liked best, which model you thought had the best walk and everything is clicking again, and he was drunk in new york, and he’s been busy lately, taking over the world isn’t an easy feat after all. 

you’re dizzy with happiness as you pile into a cab, his hand in yours, and he gives the cabbie his address. he grins at you and you lean forward to kiss him, but there’s a hand on your shoulder and a whispered “not in a cab, el” and he gives you another smile, but it’s smaller and looks nervous and you’re falling down cloud nine. 

you reach your destination, one of louis’s london flats (“real estate is a good investment” he’d explained a year ago when he bought the second) and you’re still holding his hand as you go up the stairs, but it’s mostly you holding on, like a child hanging onto a balloon. 

it’s sparsely furnished, only a table and a couch and a bed, in the master bedroom, and you bite your tongue to keep from asking why he took you to this one instead of his usual flat. you probably don’t want to hear the answer, you tell yourself as you sit down on the couch. 

louis pours himself and you a drink and brings the bottle to the couch, turning on the telly to some film you’ve both seen before. the depression and sadness come back twice as strong as you watch him gulp down his wine and pour himself another glass. so. that’s how it was going to be again. 

he’s kissing your neck, and you haven’t had a drop to drink but suddenly you wish you had. how did everything turn to this? when did this happen? why, why did this happen? he’s pushing your legs open with drunk, clumsy hands, and you let him without a fight. you’d do anything for him, you think bitterly as his glassy blue eyes picture you as someone else. you hate yourself for how much you love those eyes.  
louis, later that night after fucking into you mindlessly and harsh, says the name again, his name and as he’s falling asleep next to you, you decide you just can’t pretend any longer. it seems like a waste almost, you’ve been through so much together. two years, two albums, awards and tours and rumors and…and you can’t stop the tears when you realize you weren’t the one he went through these things with. louis celebrated and mourned and did everything with someone else, you realize, sobs escaping your mouth. a boy with curly hair and green eyes and a big smile, that’s the person louis wanted, not you. maybe never you, and suddenly you’re rushing to bathroom because you’re going to be sick. 

you have to leave, you decide, picking up your clothes and shoes, calling another cab to meet you outside. you can wait a few hours at the train station, it won’t kill you. 

you’re about to leave when louis grumbles and shifts in the bed. and god, after everything, after the lies and the cheating and the deception, after all that, you still love him. still love his smooth, tan skin and his blue eyes, and his smile and the way he made you feel, the way he made you laugh, the way he loved you, maybe. 

tears are coming back, and your cab is probably downstairs waiting, but you can’t seem to tear your eyes off louis. the way his muscled chest heaves up and down while breathing, his thin lips parted, the bed sheets bunched up around his waist. you love louis tomlinson, you whisper to yourself and as you gently kiss his forehead one last time, you know in your heart you always will. 

you finally return his phone calls and messages a week later, because you needed time, time to think and time to realize and time to be selfish and get drunk and cry yourself to sleep. but you know if you don’t do this soon, you never will, so you sit in your room and dial his cell, wondering how long it will take you to forget those ten digits. 

“el, what the hell? you haven’t returned my calls, I had to call your mum just to make sure you got back to manchester okay are-“

“louis.” you say, and your voice is soft but he hears it and stops. he was always a good listener, despite his energy and crazy, he was always there for people when they needed to talk. “louis I know.” 

he’s quite for a long, long time and you’re happy he isn’t going to try to lie to you again. “eleanor,” he starts but you cut him off. 

“no. don’t.” and you promised yourself you wouldn’t cry, but looks like you can’t control everything. no matter how hard you tried. “just. tell me it’s over okay?” you find yourself asking, your voice catching at the end. 

“eleanor, wait, let’s talk about this, we can work something out.” he saying back and you’re disgusted. he’s being a coward. 

“you owe me this louis,” you say back, tears flowing down your face and for the first time in this whole ordeal, you feel properly mad. “you fucking owe me that at least.” 

he doesn’t respond and you’re afraid he’s going to hang up on you. but you hear him sigh and know he’s still there. “I loved you.” he says instead. “I know it doesn’t mean much now, but I really did love you.” 

you put a hand over your mouth and tears come down harder, and god, fuck him. fuck louis tomlinson. “tell me it’s over louis, tell me we’re done.” you say after a few moments, your voice rough and thick with tears. 

he sighs again but whispers “we’re done, el.” 

you nod, but then realize he can’t see you. “thank you,” you say back 

“el, i’m so sorry-“ he starts to apologize, but you hang up on him, sobs taking over your body as you slide off your bed and onto your floor. 

you’ll never hear his laugh, or make him smile, or see those blue eyes scrunch up in the corners. you’ll never kiss or touch or love louis again and right now you don’t know if you hate him or yourself more.   
it’s hard to breathe, your chest is shaking, your heart is breaking,

but the world keeps spinning.

**Author's Note:**

> yo follow me on tumblr   
> itsziallbaby.tumblr.com


End file.
